


Brothers

by MartinChristopher



Series: Some Things Don't Matter [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brother relationship, Brothers, Case Fic, Childhood, Dating, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friendship, Kidlock, Love, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Abuse, Redbeard was a real dog, Teenlock, why sherlock hates mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 15:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11557872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinChristopher/pseuds/MartinChristopher
Summary: Brothers is the second episode of the Some-Things-Don't-Matter series.It's about Sherlock and Johns relationship. And it's about Sherlocks past, and his relationship with his brother, and why he declared him as his arch enemy.Time can be an unpleasent and pleasant follower, but the further time moves on, the less time we have to do the things we have on our minds. And sometimes something intervenes, that will adjusts our clocks and priorities new.For Sherlock exactly that moment has come.The time get unpleasant, and he needs to adjust his priorities to make it pleasant again.





	1. The Client

**Author's Note:**

> I will post three chapters today, then another two tomorrow.  
> And then you will get five chapters at a time, until the story comes to an end, which is after thirty chapters. :-)
> 
> Have fun.

Christmas.  
Christmas could piss off.  
He had never liked Christmas, anyway.  
And now there was one reason more to hate Christmas, to loathe Christmas; to send Christmas to hell - and there it could stay forever and always.  
Christmas.  
What was Christmas?  
A family feast?  
Definetly - a family feast; the only days in the year where he had seen his whole family; and then they all had pretended to like each other for a few days, just to badmouth afterwards all the other family members, especially him.  
What has always counted on Christmas? Gifts! Who had brought the biggest and most expensive gift, and who had brought the most gifts - it had been like a competiton.

He needed to admit, that he has looked forward to Christmas this year.  
John has infected him, with his joyful mood, his advent celebrating, and all these Christmas market visits, and the ice skatint, with all that decoration that was hanging or standing in their flat at 221B Baker Street - even the Christmas tree was set up since the beginning of December.  
And not to forget - John actually had bought him an advent calender; no, John hadn't bought him to be honest; John had made him one, he had tinkered one. And in every pouch was one of his favourite chocolate or candy, and a little selfmade riddle. Some of them had been very simple, but others had been a bit more difficult.  
Nevertheless, he hadn't opened one of the pouches in the last two weeks.  
He would do it later - some day, now it wasn't the right time for these little pouches.

"Sherlock... " John said softly; he laid his hand onto Sherlocks shoulder and stroked across it, and he kissed his head. "Let's go home. We have been here all day long. And you've been here since the last two weeks. We can come back tomorrow, hm? Right after waking up. But you need to leave that hospital for a while, you need to rest properly,... and I would be really happy to be able to sleep in next to you, at least for one night." John murmured quietly into Sherlocks hair.  
Sherlock shook his head with stubborness.  
"Honey,... we're here since this morning, it's almost midnight. Come home for one night, please baby."  
Sherlock shook his head.  
"I can't leave him alone." He said apathetically.  
"He's not alone; here are doctors and nurses,... and they had taken care of him the last few days as well, and the have done it really good. Tomorrow morning we can come back. We can't do anything right now, Sherlock. You are here every day and night, you're totally stressed and you really need a proper rest. I am at home, and I promise you that we will come back in the morning."  
Sherlock teetered back and forth on his chair.  
I didn't react to Johns last comment.

John squeezed his shoulder; he straightened his back, and helped Sherlock to stand up, who didn't even fight back a bit.  
Er laid his arm around Sherlocks back, led him to the door; and Sherlock just plodded next to him, deep in thoughts. But when they had left the room on the intensive car unit, Sherlock freed himself out of Johns commanding but soft hug.  
He pressed his flat hands against the window of the room, he pressed his forehead against it, the nose as well.

He looked to Mycroft.  
Mycroft, connected to every available machine, which watched every single little function in his body.  
Mycroft was in a coma - since almost two weeks.  
Because of him.

\---------------------

 

\- Two Weeks Earlier -

 

"Jaaaaaawn!" Sherlock yelled happily through the living room.  
He had sprawled on the sofa, tried to solve Johns riddle from the advent calendar.  
John was sitting in front of the fireplace; he had stretched out his legs, was taking a little nap since he was back from his work shift.  
His eyes didn't open immediately. He had heard Sherlock, but to be honest, he didn't want to react. He was tired and he wanted to nap a little bit longer - and he knew, wouldn't he react now, Sherlock, the new Sherlock, wouldn't wake him up rudely; the new Sherlock would let him sleep.  
But Sherlock was smarter.  
He stood up, walked over to John, and he came to a halt behind Johns armchair. He ran hin hadn through Johns hair and pressed a kiss into the good smelling grey hair.  
And John reacted like he had hoped he would - he has purred and has murmured an Again. And with that he had given away that he actually was not asleep anymore.

Sherlock smirked.  
"You're naughty." John murmured, after he had noticed his fault.  
"I've solved your riddle." Sherlock beamed unwaveringly. And has John had wished, he ran his hand through the grey hair again, and gave him a second kiss on the top of his head.  
He would have done it anyway - even without Johns wish to do it. He loved Johns har; he loft the colour, the style, the smell. And he knew how much John loved it, when he ran his hand through it or when he kissed his hair. John loved it as much as he loved it when John was doing it with his hair.  
And he really loved to give John the things he loved.  
John smiled joyfully; he had enjoyed ist, sat up a bit more and turned his head around to Sherlock.  
"Are you sure? What's your answer?" John asked with a sleepy joyful voice.  
"The first one says it's good, the second shows the way, the third one is the evil, the fourth one unite with a ring, the fifth one is the noble - together we're drumming and grabbing for the stars." Sherlock recitied the riddle. "The fingers. The answer is the hand." Sherlock said confidently. "The first one his the thumb, the second one the forefinger, the thrid one the middle finger for a fuck off, the fourth one is the ringfinger which unite couple, and the fifth one is the little one, we abduct it nobly when we drink tea." He added.  
John smirked up to him.  
"Yes, it's right. You have needed fucking long for that, honey."  
"It was too obvious." Sherlock defended himself.  
"Sometimes it doesn't have to be something complicated. Sometimes it's just in front for your nose." John winked and tapped at Sherlocks nose.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"That says the right one. You haven't noticed half a year that you're chatting with me."  
"As I said, sometimes we're thinking in too complicated ways, genius. And then, honey,... you haven't noticed it as well. You have been as suprised as me, when we have met in the bar. I have seen it, and you have said it." John smirked. He raised his hand and rubbed across Sherlocks chest, who was breathing in deeply to give him an answer. "Stop it, you lovely git. I know you haven't wanted to deduce your chat partner, if you have wanted, you probably would have caught me after the first chat. It's alright. I loved the chatting, I loved the change in our friendshipt, and I am pretty happy with the result of all this." He smiled. "You've solved the riddle now - do you want to go out for dinner? I am hungry, and I am too lazy to cook something.  
Sherlock closed hi smouth again; he smiled more and more, and in the end he nodded.  
"I am also very happy with it,... and we can go out for dinner. Angelo's?"  
"Would love to!" John beamed.

And as soon as he had said it, he stood in front of Sherlock.  
Food was even better than a nap. And to go out for dinner with Sherlock was the ultimate thing. Sherlock still wasn't a good eater since they were together, but well, at least he didn't need to eat alone anymore. Sherlock always ordered something, even if it just was a little salad or soup.  
Going out for dinner with Sherlock was lovely, no matter if it was spontaneous or a date-like evening - the atmosphere was always lovely, as colleagues, as friends and as a couple. They always had a lot to talk about, and they also were able to spend a dinner in a comfortable silence. And it was very nice that he didn't needed to force Sherlock into eating. Sherlock was doing it on his own - and yesterday, when they had been on the Christmas market, Sherlock hadn't found an end. A bratwurst, roasted almonds, a crepe, chips and at the end a waffle with egg liquor and nutella.  
John loved food and he loved Christmas, and exactly because of that, he loved Christmas food even more. But even he hadn't eaten as much as Sherlock, yesterday.

The hasty sound of the door bell took the huge anticipation for a dinner with his beloved boyfriend.  
He knew that sound.  
Clients were ringing like that.  
A case.  
And when this case wouldn't be deathly boring, the dinner was cancelled.

Sherlock bowed his head.  
He made a step to John, bent down and kissed his lips extremely soft.  
"We will just listen to the story, when it is shit, we will go out for dinner, I promise." He smiled.  
John nodded.  
And he looked after Sherlock who went to the flat door and opened it, just when the client stood in front of it.  
Mrs Hudson had let him in.

Sherlock stepped aside, let the man step inside.  
John had shoved the client chair to their armchairs.  
He greeted the client.  
"Hello."  
"Good evening. I am sorry to disturb that late in the evening, but it's really important and urgent. And I don't want to go to the police. They would probably call you and Mr. Holmes anyway, with their limited talent of solving cases. So this way is much faster." The man said.  
Sherlock smiled.  
"We share this opinion. You can sit don." Sherlock pointed happily to the chair.  
John rolled with his eyes, but he also went back to his armchair.  
And Sherlock went to his armchair as well.

All three men were sitting cross-legged.  
Sherlock and John had turned their heads to the client.

A tall and slender man was looking to them; he was sitting there with dapper and cultured dark suit trousers, a white shirt, a dark jacket; he was running his hand through his dark and slightly curled hair.  
He looked nervous, stressed and scared. His eyes were red, swollen and et.  
He breathed through.  
"I haven't even introduced myself." He said with a deep and shivering voice.  
Sherlock and John looked a him full of expectation.

"My name is William Doyle."


	2. The Case

**\- Saturday, December/10 -2016, London, 221B Baker Street -**  
  
Sherlock was sitting patiently in his armchair, even so he wasn't patient at all - at least not in his head and tummy. He hoped the new client, who was sitting on the chair like a picture of misery, would tell them his story as soon and fast as possible. The comment about the police sounded promising, and he had the feeling his case would fulfill his expectations. He needed to say, that he had changed his mind about Lestrade and his colleagues - Greg was a friend, and he was able to appreciate his work , even so it wasn't as good as his won work. But well, Greg really tried his best, he used his skills as much as he was able to - and he did this really good.  
Nevertheless he wanted to hear the story now. He wanted to decide if the case was good enough to cancel a dinner with John.  
  
John was drumming silently with his fingers on the armrests of his armchair. Like his boyfriend, he was impatient at the moment. He was hungry and he was tired, so he would have loved to spend the rest of the evening with the said boyfriend at Angelo's and then in their bed for a good night cuddle. But well, he also loved adventures, and so he really wanted to know what this case is about.  
  
William Doyle rubbed across his teary eyes.  
he looked to Sherlock, after all this was the man who should solve his case - and he would hopefully be able to save someone from which he thought would be in danger, from which he thought would be the next on the list.  
"I... I am here because of my mother." He said bravely. "To begin from the start,... a few weeks ago I found my dog in the garden, he was dead. He was lying in front of his hutch, I thought he would sleep, but when I walked over to him, I saw a lot of blood. I turned him around - it was so terrible. A knife stuck in his body, a big knife,... it stuck in his heart" He pointed to his own heart. "A... a paper was dangling at the knife. It was a note: It broke my heart. - was writting on it." He pulled the note out of his coat pocket.   
He handed it Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock took the note, eyed it.  
Male handwriting, right handed, calmy written without hectiness, blood - probably from the dog, thick paper, expensive paper, cutted, colour of the handwriting dark blue - looked expensive as well, it smelled like a male perfume and smoke - cigarette? No. Fireplace!  
Sherlock raised his head again.  
"Can you tell me something about the handwriting. Do you recognise it?" Sherlock asked.  
Mr. Doyle was nodding.  
"It's the handwriting of my brother,... but Scott is dead since four years now. He isn't alive anymore."  
Sherlock looked at him, eyed him, then he looked to the note again.  
"But the paper is new." He said more to himself then to Mr. Doyle. "Go on."  
  
Mr Doyle breathed in and out deeply.  
"I thought it was just a rude and cruel prank. My brother couldn't have done it. I thought someone has faked my brother's handwriting to scare me. I haven't called the police. I'm running a big company, and have a lot of people who envy me; I thought it was someone of these people, who just wanted to scare me." He took a deep breath again. "But now I really need your help,... it wasn't just my dog who had been killed,... someone want to see me suffer deeply, I am convinced, Mr. Holmes. I am convinced, someone want to see me suffer for the rest of my life." He said hastily, and sobbed a few times.  
"What company is it?" Sherlock asked and looked to the paper.  
"An IT company. WSSH - Wireless Security Systems Holding. It's a program that shall protect big companies from hacker attacks." He explained the short version. "You need to help me, Mister Holmes. I am absolutely sure, that someone want to see me suffer." He sobbed again.  
  
Sherlock didn't react, he just eyed the paper.  
John intervened; he looked empathically to their client, he even handed him a handkerchief.  
"Thanks."  
"No problem. What happened, Mr Doyle? Why do you believe that someone want to see you suffer?"  
Mr Doyle blew his nose.  
"Yesterday evening I found my mother in my garden, on my terrace - dead; she was just dead. I wasn't at home the whole day,... and then she was lying there in the cold, just dead." He murmured.  
"Was there a note, too?" Sherlock asked for the facts.  
John looked at him with a forceful shine in his eyes.  
Sherlock had seen the look, and he let his voice become a bit softer and more empathically.  
"It's important that you tell us as much as you know,... so that we can solve your case as fast as possible." Sherlock said softer and less forceful.  
Mr. Doyle nodded. And John looked happier.  
"Hmh,... there was a note, Mr. Holmes." He pulled another note out of his coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "There was also a knife,... in... in her neck. She is still lying on the terrace. I was so shocked, and I haven't known what do to." He murmured with an overchallenged voice.   
  
Sherlock looked at him fro a brief moment, and then down to the note.  
Oooohh, that was interesting. Very interesting!, - his mind was telling him. He rubbed his hands in his mind.  
The same paper, the same handwriting, also right handed, also blood, also cutted, male perfume, again that fireplace smell, the same colour of the handwriting.  
"You've upset mummy." He read. "You brother,... or well the one who's using the handwriting, has written that you have upset your mummy. Do you have had a fight with her?" He asked and tried to do it more carefully.  
Mr. Doyle shook his head.  
"No, I don't think so. The typical things, you know? One can't to anything right and perfectly well as a son of a mother. But I love my mum, we haven't had a severe fight." He assured. "Can you help me, Mr. Holmes? Please. I am scared thatsomething will happen to my father as well."  
  
Sherlock looked up - but he didn't look to Mr Doyle, he looked to John, who nodded with a smile.  
Sherlock turned his head to Mr. Doyle.  
"I will help you. We will come with you now, maybe we find something that could help us."  
Mr. Doyle stood up slowly; he nodded and smiled with a haunted smile.  
"Do we need to call the police?" He asked.   
John looked at him. That man really seemed to dislike the police.  
"Yes,.. someone needs to pick up your mother. What's with your dog, where is he?" John answered.  
"I... I have buried him in my garden."  
Sherlock spoke again.  
"We will dig him up again, maybe Molly can find something on or in him." He said - he really had tried to say it softly, but it had left his mouth coldly and logically.  
  
He really felt with him - with his whole heart.  
He has had a dog in his own childhood, Redbeard.  
He died, and it has broken is heart.   
Redbeard has been his loyal play mate; when Mycroft haven't wanted to play anymore, Redbeard had been there any time. And then some day, he had been lying in front of his hutch, sleeping, not alive anymore - he had been sick.  
And he also felt with him in context of his mother.   
He also loved his own mother very much, and he had made her angry a lot of times, even so he had never wanted to make her angry. But well, sometimes one did stupid things as a son.  
Maybe he wasn't really able to say it soft, because suffered with him too much. Maybe he just wanted to stay away from all the suffer, and so he just didn't let it into his heart. Like he had done it many times before.  
He was able to open his heart for John; he had laid his heart trustfully into Johns hand, and he hadn't even disappointed him a little bit. Until now, John has protected his heart with all he has, with his whole life and with so much more. It was safe in Johns hand, every second of the day - no matter if they were behaving lovingly, no matter if there was a little fight, not matter if they were fooling around, not matter if they were dashing through London.  
John loved him. And he loved John - he loved this man so much, he had never thought that he would be able to love someone that much and unconditionally.  
But Mr. Doyle was a stranger - he couldn't smash down his safety precautions for this man.  
He didn't want to let this come too close to his heart.  
And it wasn't so easy to behave like he was without all his safety precautions; he had behaved differently so many years - every pattern of behavoir was still too much stored in his whole body.  
  
John looked at him, like he wanted to say, that his tone of voice hadn't been suitable - not even a bit.  
Of course it hadn't been suitable, he had figured this out on his own - but he was John very thankful that he reminded him over and over again, that he made him more attentively for these things. But well, it was too late now; Mr Doyle had heard it, he looked shocked, sad and scared.  
  
Sherlock rubbed his nape.  
"Well, we need to find as much evidence as possible to protect your father, and to figuring out who's behind all this." Sherlock tried to save his unsuitable last comment.  
He failed.   
Mr. Doyle just nodded and turned his head to John.  
"Can we go now?" He asked him.  
John nodded, smiled cheerishly and pointed to the door.  
"You can wait for us, we will be with you any minute."  
Mr. Doyle nodded, rubbed his eyes and walked out of the flat. He walked downstairs, outdoors and to the dark car, in which his driver was waiting.  
  
John looked to Sherlock, came closer to him.  
And Sherlock beamed all of a sudden.  
"That will be interesting, John! God, that will be incredibly good."  
"I was afraid you would say that."  
"That's the first case in four weeks, John! Where's your spirit? Take something out of the fridge that you can eat on our way to his house, and then let's go. When the case is solved, I will invite you for dinner,... something more special than Angelo's. I promise, John." Sherlock said enthusiastically.  
John looked at him and needed to smile.  
"You're a mad man, Sherlock Holmes." He grinned. "To be honest,... I am looking forward to the case as well. Do you have a theory, genius?" John asked while walking into the kitchen.  
He opened the door to the fridge and took a wrapped sandwich. It wasn't lying next to creepy and dead body parts. The kitchen was cleaned up, shone like never before, as well as the fridge and the cupboards. Since half a year, John was sleeping in Sherlocks bedroom - well in their bedroom. And his old bedroom upstairs became Sherlocks creepy lab - with a fridge just for all his stolen body parts from the morgue. And not to forget all his other utensils, Sherlock needed, or meant he would need. For Sherlocks circumstances, the lab with the two tables, the cupboards and books and dokuments, looked really clean.   
  
"A few." Sherlock said and wrapped his scarf around his neck, that hung over his armchair. "The brother is secretly alive; an enemy in the own family; a friend of the family; an enemy of his company." Sherlock said and slipped into his coat. "There will be more evidences at Mr Doyles house."  
John came back to him, smiled at him with a nod, and slipped into his jacket.  
  
Sherlock smiled as well.  
He went downstairs with John.  
And he annouced happily to Mrs Hudson, who has just left her flat:  
"The game is on, Mrs Hudson!"


	3. A Crime Scene

**\- Saturday, December/10 - 2016, late evening, London, Richmond upon the Thames, Fife Road -**

Mr. Doyle's car parked in front of a huge property, to be precise it parked in the driveway, almost in front of the front door. Mister Doyle thanked the driver and got out of the car. John nodded to the driver and got out of the car as well. And Sherlock was the last one who got out of the car - the car almost looked like one of the cars his brother's minions were driving to secretly pick up John somewhere in London.

Sherlock looked to the big stony building with the white window frames. The driveway was well lighted, and in the house lights were switched on as well.  
"Do you have family?" John asked.  
"No, I am not married - well maybe I am married with my work." Mr. Doyle said.  
"I've heard that before." John stated for himself.  
Sherlock had heard him and gave him a brief look.

They walked to the front door.  
Sherlock eyed the surroundings, sucked it anything he could see.  
Grit, trimmed trees and bushes and plants.  
Light in three windows.  
A massive front door.  
A few cameras.

Sherlock pointed at them  
"Have you looked through your securities DVDs?"  
"Yes. On the evening I found my dog, I couldn't see anything abnormal - and I haven't cams in the garden, or at least they just film the terrace but not the hutch of my dog." He said. And then he sighed. "And yesterday,... well I haven't switched on the security system;... I'm often working at home, and then I switch them off. I have forgotten to switch it on yesterday morning." He said ruefully, and opened the door.  
"I would like to watch it anyway."  
Mr. Doyle nodded.

He turned his head to John.  
"You don't need to lock the door - your colleagues will probably come in a few minutes as well, right?" He said to John, who was standing a bit lost in the big entrance hall with the large staircase.  
For sure this entrance hall was lit-up amazingly when the sun shone through all the windows.  
John nodded, and let the door open. He followed Sherlock and Mr. Doyle through the entrance hall, through the open living room and to the garden door.

Their client opened the door.  
"I... I will stay inside. I... I need to call my dad, he didn't know anything. They broke up many years ago, but they are still very amicable with each other. I... I think I will invite him to come over, then I can take care of him. Maybe I just wait here and call him... or I just wait,... and call him later."  
John nodded; Sherlock nodded as well, but he started to ask questions again.  
"What's the name of your father,... so that we can do a bit of research, maybe we will find connections."  
"James,... his name is James. James Doyle." Mister Doyle said.  
Sherlock nodded, saved the information in his head.  
"What's with your employees? Has someone been here today?"  
"I've told them that they can stay at home this weekend. No one was here today. Yesterday my housekeeper Charlotte was here, she was the last one who had left the house - around six o'clock in the evening,... I was here at eleven o'clock." Mr. Doyle answered.  
Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow.  
"I know,... I know what you're thinking, but she isn't working here that long. She didn't even know my mother;... the last time my mother was here was in 2011; she always loved it more when I visited her."  
Sherlock nodded. he saved the informations.  
Lestrade would interview him again, he could grapple with this housekeeper - he didn't want to waste his time with questions about her, if he would the get the impression she could maybe be involed in this, he could search for her on his own.

John looked at Mister Doyle.  
"Just stay here and have a cup of tea or call your father, Mr. Doyle. We will go outside. And I think the police will be here any time soon.  
The client nodded, and then he left them alone.  
John looked after him and then he followed Sherlock.

John rubbed his hands together.  
It was bloody cold outside - and with the dizzy light that was shining onto the terrace and into the garden, one could see the frost on the grass and on the terrace; but one couldn't just see the frost in no uncertain manner, one was also able to see the eldery woman, who was lying on her back onto the terrace. Her arms and legs were twisted creepily, as if she would have fallen out of a window, or as if someone had just plonked her down here. In her neck stuck the knife, the blood was crusty, some of it was frozen with the frost - the woman was turned blue.

They both looked down to the corpse.  
John looked around, and looked again to Sherlock.  
And even so the client was inside, he whispered - one was able to see his breathe.  
"How can he just go to sleep while his mother is lying here, Sherlock? I would have called the police immediately, instead of waiting a whole day. He just went to bed while his dead mother was lying on the frozen terrace,... he has turned her into an... ice-corpse." He said shocked and without any understanding for this man.  
Sherlock looked at him.  
"Is that the title for the case? The ice-corpse?" Sherlock asked.  
They looked at each other and needed to giggle.  
"Stop joking around! We can't alway laugh at crime scenes, you fool." John grinned.  
It was sick. But nevertheless, they laughed very often at crime scenes.

Sherlock smirked; he pulled tow pairs of medical gloves out of his coat pockets, and handed John one pair of them.  
John took them, slipped into them, and then he squatted down with Sherlock.  
They both looked over the body.  
"I don't know why he hasn't come to us or why he hasn't called the police immediately. It's probably something that involved feelings,... you're better with this kind of things." Sherlock said while looking at the body.  
"Doesn't seemed like I am better at it... " John said. "Would you do that to your mother?"  
"Never!" Sherlockes answered quickly like a shot. He raised his head. He had his first impressions. "I would love to hear what you have to say to this." He said, and pointed to the half frozen mother.

John looked to Sherlock, and back down to the mother.  
He better just listed up the facts. He wasn't that good with the deducing, even so he knew, that Sherlock appreciated his thoughts.  
He pointed to the knife in the neck and the cut, one could see.  
"She was still alive when someone slit her throat." He said. "She literally bled to death... " He added, and pointed to all the blood on the body and the terrace. "I would say, she hasn't fought back, at least I can't see any sign of a defence - not under her fingernails or anywhere else. I can't the scratches or bruises." John said, and lifted the head of the woman. A huge bulge was at the back of her head, which one could see good enough because of her short hair. "Hmh,... she has a bulge at the back of her head. She looked like she would have fallen out of a window, like someone had pushed her down. But that can't be the solution." He pointed to the windows. "Above us isn't a window, and she would have a much bigger head wound, if she would have fallen out of a window - and she would probably have much more injuries." He grabbed her at the upper body, pressed with his hands, and he did the same with her legs and arms. "It doesn't seem like something is broken. That's weird if she would have fallen out of a window. And also the client hasn't said anything about an open window." He said, and took a deep breath. "I think,... someone knocked her out, that's why she has the bulge; that person had brought her here, had plonked her down like that, and then the person had slitten her throat. She doesn't wear a jacket,... and the client said that she didn't like to come here, so why should she change her mind all of a sudden, and how got she in, when he hadn't been at home? So my theory is that the person knocked her out, brought her here, plonked her down, slit her throat, put the knife with the note into the wound and draped her like that. And the person has a key or the person got in here without leaving any trace. Oh and the person was right handed - one can see that the person started on the left side. So the person was kneeling behind her." John said. He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Sherlock. Please amaze me with your deductions."

Sherlock looked at him with stunned eyes. He bowed his head, smiled more and more.  
"Fantastic. I am impressed." He said.  
John looked irritated.  
"Why? Was it so bad?"  
"No. Just the opposite. I don't know what to add now." Sherlock said.  
John looked stunned.  
"What???"  
"I don't really know what to add at this point of the investigation. She doesn't have a jacket and now coat; even if your visiting someone by car or cab, you take a jacket with you. There wasn't a female jacket or coat at the pegs in the entrance hall, just male coats and jackets. So she came here without a jacket, and that's weird. She really looks like someon would have pushed her down. But you're right, there isn't a window above us, and she would have more injuries than that bulge and her slit throat. And you're right, there aren't other injuries form a defence. The throat is clear, right handed, kneeling behind her, cut drom the left side to the right side. And you're right, someone killed and draped her here, otherwise we wouldn't see that amount of blood here. You have just overseen one thing. The shoes. She is dressed up very chic,... but she's wearing slippers." Sherlock said. "No one would go out for a visit with slippers. She hasn't left her home freely."  
John looked at him.  
"I'm still flashed that I was that good this time, so I don't care about the slippers." John grinned.  
Sherlock grinned as well; he wanted to say that he would think about a reward, but a voice stopped him.

Greg and his colleagues had arrived.  
At least a few police officers and Anderson - Sally was probably in the house and chatting with Mister Doyle.  
Greg looked over the crime scene.  
"Ohooo,... um... I haven't expected something like that." Greg said, and looked down to the body. He rubbed his neck and grimaced.  
Sherlock and John stood up - they had seen enough anyway. The other could do their job now.  
"Hello Greg."  
Hey John,... what do you have for us?" He said, and pointed to the woman on the frost.  
He hoped that Sherlock had figured out something good - Sherlock was better at this anyway, and to be honest he had wanted to spend his evening somewhere else. Just a few minutes ago, he had been in front of his fireplace, on the sofa, with a glass of wine, after a lovely and delicious dinner - and now he was standing in the bloody cold night in front of a woman with a slit throat, who was almost frozen with the terrace. He looked at his watch, and then he looked back to John and Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed him, and then he looked to John.  
"Tell him what we found out. I would say, he would love to be at home again as soon as possible." He said to John, and turned back to Greg.  
"Well,... your date has left your flat with you, anyway."  
"How can you possibly know that already?!" Greg asked disbelievingly. "How can he possibly know that already?! He asked John.  
John grinned.  
"He is Sherlock Holmes; he probably has deduced it with the result that you have had a date."  
Greg puckered his lips.  
And Sherlock looked at him - unimpressed.  
"Of course I have. You look like you have dressed up on purpose, you smell different than normally - perfume. Your hair is styled properly. And you don't just smell after perfume, you smell after food - you've cooked. You never cook for yourself. So you've had a visitor. Your dressed up, you've used perfume so it was more likely a date than an evening with a friend. And you're looking constantly on your watch, as if you would hope for leaving this place as soon as possible to maybe stop by your date on your way back home." Sherlock said - but he wasn't satisfied at all. He couldn't deduce who had been the date. He just smelled one perfume, and he couldn't find any other evidence for another person, he was mad with himself.  
"What can I say? You're right my friend, like always." Greg said. He sighed, turned back to John. "Can you tell me what happened here?"  
John smirked and gave Sherlock a big grin, who winked at him when he left the crime scene to go inside - probably on his way to look up the DVDs from the security system.

While John was speaking with Greg, his colleagues were busy with their work and the removal of the body - the next station would be Molly; maybe she would be able to find out a bit more. It was worth a try.  
Sherlock was looking through the recordings - but even so he had watched it a few times, he couldn't find something that looked suspicious. The recordings were showing nothing at all - just like the client had told him before. The camera had just monitored the terrace. And on the terrace hadn't happened something abnormal - nothing had happened there until the client had been at home. The client had walked out of the terrace, the light had gone on - he had been outdoors for a while, and then one had seen that he had walked back to the terrace - hastily and hysterically. The client had walked into the house, and a little while later he had come back with a blanket - and then nothing had happened again.  
According to the client, he had buried his dog in that time.

Now the dog wasn't buried in the garden anymore; Gregs colleagues had digged him up again - a blanket had been wrapped around the dog's body; it had been the blanket, the client had carried outdoors on the security DVD.

The forensic people had tried their best, but they hadn't found anything - and Sherlock couldn't blame or insult them, because he hadn't found anything himself. Whoever had killed the mother and the dog, he had made sure that no one would find anything in here. This had been planned - this wasn't just a spontaneous crime, it was a planned crime, from someone who knows exactly what to do.  
Sherlock was happy about the case - it was really thrilling and interesting, and he would probably need a while to solve it. It wouldn't be easy, but his head was more happy with difficult cases, then with easy one he could solve after a few minutes.  
He really loved the little riddles form John, it was a lovely gesture, and he looked forward to them every day, but he had never needed more than a few hours to solve them.  
In his mind palace, he already tried to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Until now it didn't make a lot of sense - the amount of possibilities was too high, the amount of suspects was too high, and they haven't had any concrete names yet; just Charlotte the housekeeper.

Tonight he wouldn't sleep a wink.  
He wanted to solve the case and that meant, that he would use the night for research, while John would help him - just to fall asleep on the desk, in his armchair or on the sofa while cuddling against him. He knew John was pretty tired, it was just a matter of time when he would fall asleep during the research, and if he would fall alseep on the desk, in his armchair, or while cuddling with him on the sofa.

The forensic was packing their bags, Sally talked with Anderson, Greg was talking with John and the client. And Sherlock was walking through the garden.  
The property was huge, surrounded by trees and bushes and a fence. And the garden hadn't plenty to offer, despite a huge grass field, a shed and a big dog hutch.  
Sherlock walked through the whole garden, walked to the dog hutch again. He squatted down, stroked with his forefinger across the name, which was written over the entrance of the hutch.  
Captain.  
Captain had been his name.  
And for a short moment he saw himself with his dog Redbeard running through their garden. He, with his wooden sword in his hand; Redbeard who was running with him, with a stick hin his mouth - Mycroft was chasing them with another wooden sword. They were both laughing heartily.  
Captain was a pirate name as well. Or a title for a pilot or somone from the army.  
It reminded him of himself and Redbeard, and of John.  
He sighed. He felt bad for the dog, and the note 'It broke my heart.' reminded him of the loss of Redbeard. At this moment here, was one of the moments were he wished to have a dog - even so it wasn't a good idea in their flat at 221B Baker Street. And neither John nor he himself wanted to leave 221B Baker Street at the moment. They loved Baker Street and they loved Mr. Hudson.  
The thing that had happend here was disgusting and he hoped, he would find out the person who was responsible for that cruel crime.

Sherlock sighed again, stood up and walked back to the terrace - onto the frozen wooden terrace. Just one spot wasn't frozen. The spot where Mrs. Violet Doyle had been lying.  
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in the fresh and cool air, and then he walked back into the house.

Half of the night had already passed, they were here for hours. He just wanted to go home and start his reserach; he just wanted to bring this to an end. Both crimes and both notes were just absolutely cruel and disgusting. The notes, which seemed to be written by Mr. Scott Doyle - the dead brother.  
Now it was just all about protecting Mr. Doyle and his father James, to save them from another cruel crime.  
And he hoped he would manage to solve it, before they would find the next note.

He walked out of the entrance hall with Greg and John.  
And he closed the door of the huge stony house, followed Greg and John across the grit.  
"I will drive you two back to Baker Street." Greg smiled.

 

Mr. William Doyle sat down onto his sofa and pulled out his smartphone.  
07700 900 468  
J. Doyle.


	4. Researches and Relationships

\- Sunday, December/11 - 2016, midmorning, London, 221B Baker Street -

The sun was shining through the living room. They rays were lighting up the living room, dark corners and the man who was lying on the sofa. They warmed his face a bit.  
The man was lying on his back, his legs were stretched out - he was almost awake. The dark blue shirt was unbuttoned a bit, the jacket was hangung over the armrest of the sofa, the shoes were standing in front of it.  
Sherlock yawend, stretched his body, rubbed his eyes, and turned around on his side, making himself comfortable.  
And then he opened his eyelids apruptly.  
Why was he sleeping?  
No! Why had he been asleep?  
He blinked a few times, looked around in confusion. And when he stretched his body again, he felt the fleece blanket, which laid over his body, in which he cuddled his body.

Sherlock freed himself out og the blanket and sat up. He ran his hand through his hair; the blankt was hanging ove his shoulders.  
He sighed and looked through the living room.  
His laptop was standing on the coffee table, and when he got the laptop out of the standby mode, he noticed that it still showed the website of Mr. Doyles company WSSH. He wrinkled his forehead - the first thing he had reserached last night, had been that company.  
"Hmh." Sherlock hummed sleepily.  
The tea, John had made him inthe night was still standing next to the laptop, he was just half empty. The plate with the cookies was empty. Of course. While the laptop had started, he had breathed in these delicious cookies - John had made them.  
His eyes caught the fireplace; a fire was burning. It was burning wildly, spent a lot of warmth. John seemed to have fed it with new wood, and it seemed like he had done it just a few minutes ago. Was he still awake, or was he in the bedroom?  
Sherlock freed himself out of the blanket. He stood up, stretched his body again and walked across the coffee table. In the corner of his eyes he could see the table in the living room.  
He wrinkled his forehead, turned around to the table and took all the notes, which were lying there.

His eyes went big, looked through the notes.  
On each note wwere standing different information.  
Note one - William Doyle.  
Note two - WSSH  
Note three - Scott Doyle  
Note four - Violet Doyle  
Note five - James Doyle  
Note six - crime scene  
Note seven - DVD recording  
Note eight - Mollys autopsy from Violet Doyle and Captain  
Note nine - Inormation about the remaining family members of William Doyle.

Sherlock bowed his head, turned the notes around.  
It was Johns handwriting. John had filled these notes with a lot of informations about the Doyles and the case.  
John seemed to have sitten here the whole night and doing research after research, while he had slept on the sofa.  
What had he thought yesterday? That John would probably fall asleep very quickly? Jesus, he had been totally wrong.  
Sherlock put the notes back onto the table.  
He walked to the living room into the kitchen.

And he found something, he hadn't expected.  
John.  
John was sitting at the kitchen table. Well, his upper body was lying on the kitchen table, his arms were crossed, his head was lying on them.  
The doctor had fallen asleep at the kitchen table, while making breakfast.  
Sherlock could see the knifes, bowls and plates, the marmelade, sugar, cereals, milk, toast and butter.  
The water kettle was ready with boiling water for their tea  
He looked to John and then to the water kettle.  
The kettle could wait a few minutes.

Sherlock walked to John, laid his hands carefully onto Johns shoulders, bent down and kissed the temple.  
"John." He whispered.  
"Hmh?" John murmured half asleep.  
"Morning." Sherlock mumbled, and kissed Johns temple again - and his hads were gently massaging Johns shoulders.   
John purred and shivered with pleasure. He didn't open his eyes, just enjoyed Sherlock massage.  
"Sorry that I fall asleep. You could have just woken me up - then we would have gone to bed together." He kissed the temple again, and was still massaging him. "But thank you for the blanket."  
John smiled.  
"Hmh, you're welcome Sherlock. I was curious about the case. But I haven't really found something." He murmured. "He's really sucessful with his company. His brother was ill; I have called Mycroft, he has opened a few files, and he found out that it was pneumonia. The mother... "  
"John,... I know. I found your notes. I've read them." Sherlock smiled and rubbed across Johns shoulders, then he started to massage them again.

John was yawning heartily. He opened his eyes, and sat up slowly - jesus, the massage was so good, especially for his bad shoulder, it felt so good what Sherlock was doing.   
And when Sherlock bent down to kiss the spot behind his ear, he purred deeply.  
"Will,... " John sighed.  
Sherlock smiled.  
"May I have a good morning kiss, Johnny?"   
John smiled. He turned around on his seat and then he stood up.

He stretched his body, beamed to Sherlock, rubbed across his chest and wrapped his arms around him.  
Sherlock hugged him too.  
"Morning, honey." John smiled. He stretched upwards and kissed him softly.  
Sherlock returned the kiss, kissed him lovingly. He sighed into the kiss, enjoyed Johns slightly rough and warm lips. He ran his hand through Johns hair, his other hand stroked across Johns back. He could feel that Johns hand wandered down to his butt.  
They broke the kiss slowly.

Sherlock smiled at John.  
"Thank you for the breakfast, John."  
"My pleasure, Sherlock. You have brought me the breakfast into the bed yesterday."  
Sherlock smiled and winked, and then he kised Johns forehead.  
"Sat down, darling,... I will take care of the tea, and then we can have breakfast. So you can lay down for a proper nap any time soon. And I will look up your notes again."  
John nodded with a smile; he stroked across Sherlocks butt before he broke apart.

John sat down at the table again while Sherlock took care of the tea.  
"Do you know who Greg has dated?" John asked.  
"No,... and I am mad about it, because I would love to know it. But I haven't seen something that I could connect to another person. They seemed to have had their first date, or he had cooked alone, and they had just shared a dinner."  
John nodded.  
"Hmh, he hasn't told me anything." John said. "Thanks." He smiled at Sherlock who put down the tea cups. "Maybe it was Mycroft." John grinned when Sherlock sat down.  
"What?!"  
"You have told me, that Mycroft fancies Greg. When we chatted you told me that your brother has a crush for one of the people you work with. You have talked about Greg, haven't you? I don't think that your brother fancies me,... at least, he seemed to be very happy when he learned that we're a a couple. And he didn't know the others very well." John said.  
"Yes,... yes I talked about Greg. Hmh,... I don't know. Greg has always had girlfriends."  
"Has Mycroft said anything at some point?" John asked.  
"You know very well that we don't talk about things like that,... we just talk about cases, if we talk at all."

John buttered his toast, and spooned a lot of marmelade onit.  
"Sherlock, you really need to talk with him. You need to clear your relationship with him. You have texted me, that you miss him. And you have told it me in person. We've talked about it a bit. You really need to do something about it. He gives you so me opportunities, and you fend them all off."  
Sherlock closed the milk and took his spoon.  
"It's not that easy, if one hadn't spoken about it a long time. I didn't even know why I hate him so much. I don't know how to talk with him. And maybe, he is up to no good."  
John rolled his eyes.  
"Honey,... no matter if you trust him or if you're still hurt because of something you have forgotten or buried deep down,... you can tell him all of this, you two can talk about all this. But you need to say something. You know, at some point it's too late - there will be a day after that you won't be able to talk with him anymore. It won't get easier when you wiat even longer. Mycroft reached out to you over and over again, just grab his hand. I know it is something that's important to you. I know that he is important to you. What do you have to lose? Your relationship isn't good, it can't get any worse. Either it will stay like that or it will get better, so you will win. Because either it stays like it is and you can put this behind you, or it will get better and you have your brother back in your life." John said and pointed to him. "And I know you love him. You don't have to admit it, I know you do."  
Sherlock sighed.  
"We have a case right now. I... I promise you to speak with him,... this year before Christmas. I promise you I will talk with him before Christmas. I know how much you love Christmas, and how much you would love to celebrate with all of us. I will talk with him,... and then we can celebrate Christmas together."

John smiled.  
"You don't need to promise me anything. You don't have to do it for me, do it for yourself." He said. "I put the fight with my family and my family in generally behind me. And I am fine with this. I don't need them, I am more happy withouth them. You haven't put Mycroft behind you, because you love him and you want to have him back - so you really need to do something about it."  
Sherlock sighed again. He knew that John was right. He nodded.  
"I will do it before Christmas." He said more to himself than ot John.  
And then he put the spoon with the cereals into his mouth.

 

They were eating their breakfast calmly, didn't talk about Mycroft any longer. They just talked about the last night, about the case and the client and these cruel crimes.  
They cleaned up the table after being ready.

John was standing between the kitchen and the living room, was looking into the living room and rubbing his neck.  
"I will go and have a shower and then I will take a nap. I will help you later again." He said and wanted to turn around to Sherlock who was still in the kitchen.  
But Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, hugged him softly.  
"We could share a bath. And then you could go to bed, and I would join you, reading your notes, researching a bit, while you could cuddle with me." He murmured into Johns ear and kissed it afterwards.  
John closed his eyes.  
"I would love to share a bath with you." John purred.  
"That's what I wanted to hear." Sherlock smiled and turned John around. He looked down to him, smiled at him. "Come on, let's go to the bathroom, the sooner we get into the bathtub, the sooner you can take a nap." He stroked across Johns back.  
John smiled, raised his hand and stroked across the side of Sherlocks head, played with the curls. He stretched upwards and kissed Sherlocks cheek.  
They smiled at each other and then they walked into the bathroom.

While the water was running into the bathtub, John was waiting in the bathroom. Sherlock was picking up his laptop and Johns notes and brought them into the bedroom - he also closed the curtains and switched on his bedside lamp.  
And when he came back to the bathroom, John was undressing himself.  
John turned his head to Sherlock when he stepped out of his jeans.  
"I wanted to yell after you." John smiled.  
"Not necessary, I am here." He smiled.  
He unbottoned his shirt, slipped out of it; then he slipped out his trousers, socks and his pants.  
John was naked too.  
Two stacks of clothes were lying on the bathroom floor.

Sherlock stepped into the bathtub. He wasn't freezing, but the bathtub was more comfortable than the showe. And they hadn't shared a bath since a while.  
John followed him, sat down between Sherlocks legs, and leaned back against his chest; he laid his head onto Sherlocks collarbone, and his hands onto Sherlocks thighs.  
He sighed. He wasn't freezing as well, but he loved the bathtub, especially when Sherlock was in it as well. The last time had been at the beginning of November - Sherlock had been sick back then. Sherlock had literally begged him to share a bath with him, just sitting next to the bathtub hadn't been enough. Sherlock had been stressful while being sick, nevertheless he needed do admit, that he had expected it more stressful and nerve-racking, than it had been. Nevertheless, Sherlock had been a little gadfly. He had been really sick, with high fever and a nerve-racking cough, cruel throat pain, a stuffy nose and ear pain - he hadn't been stressful because of his pains and the cough. He had complained about being bored and about the terrible medicine, food and drink offers, John had given him. Digusting cough syrup, nasty lozenges, foul-smelling fever juice, ginger tea and soup.

John snuggeld against Sherlocks body, who kissed his head and caressed his chest - he caressed the spots of his army and british flag tattoos.   
John smiled; Sherlocks finger were caressing his tattoos very often, and his eyes were looking at them every time he was able to see them, and his lips were brushing over them as well.   
John knew that Sherlock loved the tattoes, that he was turned one by them - he even had said that he wouldn't mind, if he would get another one.  
Johns fingertips caressed Sherlocks thighs.  
"I have heard you snoring this night for the first time." John grinned.  
"I was snoring?" Sherlock asked irritated. "You're the one who his snoring silently. You have misheard it."  
John laughed.  
"No, I haven't. You laid on the sofa with your laptop on your lap; you've breathed in my cookies, which you haven't wanted inthe first place. You've told me that you would look after that company, and I was researching Mr. Doyle and his family. And maybe five minutes later, I heard you snore." John laughed. Sherlock pinched his nipple "That's not a punishment, that turns me on, you cute idiot." John lauged with a warm voice.  
Sherlock grinned.  
"Shit, I have forgotten." His fingers brushed to Johns neck, tickled him there. "That's the right spot."  
John started to laugh even more; he grabbed Sherlocks arm, pulled his hand away - Sherlock had made it really easy.

They both giggled.  
John scratched over his neck, shivered slightly; he laid one hand back onto Sherlocks thigh, the other arm hugged Sherlocks arm which was lying around his chest.  
Sherlock buried his nose into Johns hair  
"Thank you, John. Thank you, that you have let me sleep this night, and that you gave me the blanket,... and that you have worked without me."  
John smiled.  
"You looked very exhausted, why should I wake you up then? You would have found more during your research than I have found, but well, you just looked so sweet - and so I thought I work a little bit for you." John smiled "It's fine, sweetheart. You let me take a nap after work, you don't wake me up when we watch telly and I fall asleep, you let me go to bed earlier when I am tired, and you let me sleep in the morning, when you are already awake."  
Sherlock smiled, kissed Johns back of the head, and pressed him closer to his chest. He was hugging him safely, like he wanted to protect him from something bad and evil. And John was snuggling his body more and more into that hug.   
John was right, he was doing all of this - he was doing it because he loved him, and because John appreciated this behavior very much. And he got something back from John - beaming eyes, happy smiles, thank you's, hugs, kisses, love, little sweet gestures.   
He seemed to make a lot of things right in that relationship, according to Johns beaming and shining blue eyes.

 

Twenty minutes, they stayed in the bathtub.  
Tweny minutes, in which they were cuddling in silent most of the time.  
Twenty minutes, in which Sherlock sat still, without whining or whimpering, withtout frocing John out of the bathtub, without getting hectically.  
Twenty minutes, just them as a couple, without a hint of work or case.

After the bathtub, they had walked into the bedroom.  
Sherlock was wearing a thin pullover and his pajama pants, and John was just wearing his bathrobe.  
Sherlock sat down onto the bed, put the laptop on his lap - the notes were lying on the right side.  
John was lying next to Sherlock, he slipped as closely as possible, was snuggled up in the bathrobe under the blanket. He pressed his face against Sherlocks side, a bit above the left hip.He closed his eyes.  
Sherlock looked down to him. His hand ran under the blanket, and his eyes followed Johns movements, who freed his left arm out of the bathrobe. Sherlock smiled, he knew that John wanted to be caressed, he wanted to feel it on his bare skin.  
Sherlock laid his arm around John, laid his hand onto Johns back, and caressed him with his fingertips.

John purred, laid his leg over Sherlocks legs, pressed his face even more against Sherlocks side, and breathed in his scent. He sighed. He could feel the caresses when he drifted into his sleepy state.  
Yesterday had been exhausted, as well as the night, he was just absolutely tired.  
"I love you too" Sherlock said with a warm and loving voice, as an answer to Johns snuggling.  
It was the lastthing John heard before he fall asleep with a happy smile.


	5. Curiosities

**\- Monday, December/12 - 2016, early evening, New Scotland Yard -**  
  
A black car was parking in front of the New Scotland Yard, and a man with a dark blue suit, a white shirt and a red tie, was getting out of it. His dark hair were styled perfectly - as always. A dark coat was hanging over his shoulders and a dark blue scarf was loosely wrapped around his neck.   
He was holding his signature feature in his right hand - the obligatory umbrella.  
Just rarely, he used the umbrella, but he was always carrying taking it with him.  
It was like Sherlocks Belstadd coat - his security.  
  
Mycroft Holmes closed the car door and then he walked to the entrance of the Yard.  
He took the elevator up to DI Lestrade's department.   
He wanted to have a few informations about Sherlock - about Sherlock and this new case.  
He could have called John to be honest . John gave him every information he wanted to have freely, as long as it wasn'T to private. John was a good man, and he was truely happy, that the doctor had been able to melt Sherlocks heart. They were a great couple and they balanced each other - he was totally happy with John at his little brother's side.  
But this time he hadn't wanted to ask John, even so he would probably be able to tell him much more then Lestrade.  
He wanted to Lestrade because of another reason, but it was a good cover to pretend that he was here to hear something about Sherlock.  
  
Lestrade wasn't just DI Lestrade anymore.   
He had become Gregory a while ago - and after another little while; he they had started to call each other "du", and Gregory had become Greg. And during that, they had met every now and then for a little drink after work.  
And on the last Saturday, they had met for the first time in Gregs flat. They had cooked with each other, they had eaten with each other, and then they had talked really good while drinking a glass of wine on the sofa. The conversation had been so good and relaxed and thrilled, that they probably would have talked the whole night, if John wouldn't have called because of a crime scene.  
  
He was here, because he wanted to see Greg.  
  
They had been interrupted on Saturday night, and he wanted to repeat that evening - not just once.  
Greg was great - and one of the few people, he was able to handle, he was able to handle really good and nice; he was one of the few people, he really cared about; and he was the first man since a lot of years, whom he had given his heart - even so, he didn't know if Greg wanted to have it that way.  
  
He strolled through the corridor, clattered with his umbrella onto the floor.  
He came to a halt in front of Gregs office.  
His hand ran through his hair, and he adjusted his tie, scarf and coat.  
He knocked.  
And a little moment later, he could he Gregs voice.  
"Yes?"  
Mycroft opened the door.  
  
And like expected, the silver haired DI was sitting behind his desk - the feet onto the table, a donut in his hand.  
Greg whiped the crumbs from his shirt and raised his head.  
"Mycroft!" he said alarmed; he put his legs down immediately, sat down properly, put the donut down, wiped a few crumbs from the corner of his mouth, and adjusted his shirt.  
Mycroft smirked; he came in, closed the door and turned around to Greg. He bobbed from his heels to his tiptoes and back.  
"Hello Greg."  
Greg smiled, ran the hand through his hair.  
"Can I help you somehow?" He asked with a smile.  
Mycroft came closer, leaned his umbrella against Gregs desk and slipped out of the scarf and the coat.  
"I wanted to ask how the case is going. That one with the dead mother and dog." He hung up his coat and scarf.  
"Um, well - Sherlock and John are working on it much more than I do, to be completely honest. He will solve it before I do, anyway." Gregs said frustrated. "You just want to have a few informations about your brother, right?" He smiled.  
Mycroft smiled, sat down and crossed his legs.  
"Well, but Sherlock isn't sleeping and eating properly during his cases, and that's not healthy." Mycroft said.  
"Maybe I should eat a bit less as well." Greg said, and looked down to his donut, and stroked over his belly.  
"We both have a weakness for candy and sweets." Mycroft smiled. He played with one of Gregs pens. "To be honest, I am not here because of Sherlock."  
Greg bowed his head.  
"Why are you here?"   
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
  
"How have you become a Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked. He had hoped that Greg would figure it out, without him speaking it out loud. He looked to the pen and then back to Greg. "I'm just here because of you. Sherlock was just a cover." he admitted.  
Greg looked at him and then the penny dropped.  
"Oh,.... oooh. Um. I just ignore your question." He smiled shyly. "You don't need a cover to come here." He rubbed across his neck. "It's great to see you." He smiled. "But if you want to play with your cover - then I can just tell you, that Sherlock wanted to drive with John to Mr. Doyle. The father wanted to come, and they wanted to support Mr. Doyle. And well, he figured out that I have had a visitor on Saturday night."  
Mycroft looked at him, was still playing with the pen.  
"I've told you that after John had called you. We could repeat this evening, after all we got interrupted. Maybe after this case."  
"That would be great. I really had hoped that it wouldn't take that long,... but I came home at three o'clock in the morning."  
Mycroft nodded.  
"We just repeat the evening."  
They smiled at each other.  
  
Greg looked to his donut, grabbed it; he bit into it, saw Mycrofts smirk - and he needed to smirk as well with a piece of donut in his mouth.  
He could't really say how this started - how this started with Mycroft. But at some point, he had always been looking forward to meet Sherlocks older brother at a crime scene - even so they hadn't talked that much with each other, Mycroft had become more and mor sympathic.  
He was done with the women; he wasn't lucky with them - which was probably because his missing piece was sitting in front of him.  
The Holmes brothers weren't easy. One was in no way inferior to the other. But if one know how to handle them, if one know which buttons one needed to press, then it was the easiest thing on the world.  
John and Sherlock loved each other, they fought with each other, they were able to drive each other totally crazy, they could make each other laugh, they shared a few interests and they balanaced each other.  
Something, he could imagine himself with Mycroft - he was sure it would look really similiar if they would give it a go.  
The question was, if Mycroft was able to get himself into this.  
  
There was a knock at the door.  
Greg sighed, and spoke with a mouth full of donut.  
"Yes?"  
A new colleague was coming into the office.  
"Evening." She smiled.  
Mycroft turned his head around, nodded with a friendly smile.  
"What's up, Kate?" Gregs asked with a voice, that said, that he wasn't in the mood for work.  
"I have a missing person report for you." Kate said and came closer.  
"That's not our division. We've something else to do. Someone else can take care about this." Greg said.  
Kate stood next to the chair Mycroft was sitting in.  
"Well, it has something to do with the case we're working on. Matt has recorded it, I was making a break with him, and we talked about it. He had shown me the picture,... I think this won't make you happy." She said, and laid the picture onto the table.  
  
Greg pulled to photo to him.  
He looked at the woman.  
Darkblonde short hair with grey strands; blue eyes; slender and small; dressed up cultured and chic.  
Greg bowed his head.  
He looked up to Kate, and shrugged his shoulder.  
"That's our dead woman,... why should I dislike it? That's Mrs. Doyle, the mother. Who had come here to report her missing? I thought the father, or well her ex-husband, wouldn't live here.  
Kate looked at him.  
"The husband had come here to report her missing. And her name isn't Violet Doyle. That's Margret Smith. The husband wasn't at home the whole week and weekend, and when he was back, his wife wasn't at home; he had called all their friends and her friends, but no one had seen her. Our dead woman is Margret Smith, and not Violet Doyle." Kate said.  
  
Mycroft and Greg were looking at each other; their eyes big.  
Greg looked to the picture agin.  
"This can't be! Molly had checked everything, we have checked everything. Just everything. "This is Violet Doyle." He said alarmed. "Sherlock and John have also done a huge background check. This need to be Mrs. Doyle!" He said with a fast beating heart.  
Kate looked at him.  
"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark." She said.  
Mycroft took the picture and eyed it.  
Greg blinked a few times, and made a gesture with his hand, that Kate should leave.  
"I will take care of this. Thanks." He said.  
"I am here, if you need help." She said and walked out of the office.  
  
Greg put his hands in front of his eyes. He shook his head and lowered his hands again.  
Mycroft put the picture onto the table.  
"Are you sure about her identity?" He asked.  
"Of course! We have checked everthing - finger prints and so on; Sherlock and John had made a big background check of the Doyle family.  
Mycroft stood up and came to Greg and his computer.  
"Let me use your computer for a moment. I can use our system from here. We just check it again, Greg."  
Greg rolled aside with his chair.  
"What should have changed, Mycroft? The fingerprints have been a match. It's Violet Doyle." He said with a stubborn voice.  
"Just let me take a look, Greg." Mycroft said and turned his head to the computer.  
He opened a few sites, typed a few passwords into the computer, and then he searched for a name.  
  
 **Violet Doyle**  
  
 **...**  
 **... ...**  
 **... ... ...**  
  
 **0 results found for the name Violet Doyle.**  
  
Greg and Mycroft looked at each other.  
"That can't be true! Mycroft! We have checked it a few times. She was there! She was!" Greg said furiously.  
"There is no person registrated with the name Violet Doyle in the UK, Greg."  
"This can't be!" Greg said with a sulky voice. "It just can't be!  
Mycroft looked at him.  
He sighed, turned his head back and typed in another name.  
  
 **Margret Smith**  
  
 **...**  
 **... ...**  
 **... ... ...**   
  
The most actual file was shown on the top.  
  
 **Margret Smith  07/03/1956**  
 **Reported missing: 12/12/2016**  
  
Mycroft opened the file.  
There was a picture and an information about Margret Smith - and it was without any doubt the dead woman from Mr. Doyles house.  
They had just looked at the picture, when two words where flickering over the screen.  
Over and over again.  
  
  
 **Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?**  
  
  
Greg and Mycroft blinked a few times.  
They mouthes hung open.  
And then Mycroft smartphone startled them up and out of their shoked state.  
He pulled the smartphone out of his inside pocket of his jacket.  
A unknown number.  
He opened the message.  
  
 **Miss me?**  
  
Mycroft starred down to the text.  
His head was buzzing - and Greg sunk into his chair, he raised his hands in front of his eyes and shook his head in horror.  
Mycrofts heart was racing, his head was buzzing and rattling.  
Moriarty.  
Moriarty - who should be dead.  
Moriarty still alive, was that possible?


End file.
